


Disturbance of the Peace

by eduardo_tozier



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28644099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eduardo_tozier/pseuds/eduardo_tozier
Summary: Eddie attempts to hitchhike from Maine to Boston to join Stan and Mike for college, but get sidetracked by a storm and lost in the woods. Accidentally injured by Richie, he lives with him in his secluded cabin until he heals. As the days pass, feelings grow and Eddie notices more and more menacing things happening around Richie and the cabin.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Disturbance of the Peace

It wasn't much of a campsite, just a clear-ish patch in the woods off the side of the interstate, but it was more than enough for his tiny, one-man tent and a campfire he could barely keep burning. The fire was pathetic to start with, most of the sticks and branches surrounding him too damp to start any sort of fire with. It glowed down into embers in the small bowl of earth he had created to contain it, smoldering away and putting off little heat. Eddie made it work, though, spending an hour drying out the sticks with scraps of cardboard he found in the ditches next to the road and finally getting the fire to start really growing. Thank God for disgusting, littering people throwing trash from their car windows. 

At least the ground was soft from the rain, unlike the week before. He put his full body weight onto the spokes, grunting and groaning from the effort of just trying to get them to breach the compacted dirt. He almost broke one of the tent poles from trying to force it into the dry ground, ultimately giving up and curling up next to the fire instead with blisters decorating his hands. He nearly cried in relief when he came across a truck stop the next morning, able to take a shower and a nap before having to get back to the road again. 

It was almost impossible to read his old map in the flame of the small campfire, casting long, flickering shadows across the paper. Eddie held it spread across the thighs of his jeans, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in the paper as he squinted at it. He was barely able to make out the colored lines representing the major roads of Maine. He traced his shaking fingers carefully over one of the intersecting blue lines, the gears in his mind trying to turn on his empty stomach. 

"If I could just get picked up at the next restaurant..." he mumbled to himself under the wind, scratching the patchy hair on his jaw. He followed along the line down to New Hampshire near Dover, estimating how many miles it would take. How many truckers would he have to flag down to just get there? The wind tried to rip the paper from his hands once again as he looked at it. He cried out in frustration, wrangling the stupid fucking map back down across his lap for the twelfth time that night, shielding it from the wind the best he could with his body. Why hadn't he thought to bring extra batteries for his flashlight? His life would be so much easier at this exact moment if he had. Instead, he has to go by the dying flame in his feeble little fire, more wood needing to be dried if he wanted to keep it going. Which he didn't, he didn't need another cop accosting him for "trespassing" on government land, the most ridiculous rule in the book. So he threw the last dried piece of wood into the flames and slowly sat back up with his hands on either corner of the map, squinting down at the paper once again. 

Eddie found where he was again, 160 miles closer to his destination now, just outside of Augusta. If he could get to the next rest stop by noon tomorrow, he should be able to set up camp in New Hampshire for bed the next night. If enough people stopped for him, that is. He traced along the lines leading down to Boston, too lost in thought with not enough feeling in his hands to keep the paper down when the next gust of wind came and successfully snatched the map from his grasp, sending it sprawling across the forest floor into the dark trees. 

"No!" He cried out, launching from his seat on the ground and stumbling after the flying paper. His feet caught on tree roots as he trampled the plants underfoot, nearly toppling face first into tree bark and wet soil, trying to keep up with the winds speed. It slows down enough for Eddie to close the distance before its pulled away again, like his own personal game of cat and mouse with Mother Nature. It twirled around tree branches as the wind lifted it into the air, ripping and tearing on its way up. Tiny pieces of paper fall across the forest floor like the worst snow Eddie had ever felt, finally snagging on a branch 15 or so feet in the air. He kicked at the tree, cursing it for growing in the first place. He needed that stupid map and didn't have any more money to get a new one. 

Eddie screamed at the map. He threw small rocks and twigs up at it trying to knock it free. He begged the universe to just give him a god damned break, for fucks sake. None of it sent the map back down to him. It rustled in the branch it was caught on, like a cruel paper laugh, as if to say you should've listened to dear Momma, Eddie-Bear. What does a little man like you know about going off on his own, hundreds of miles away from home? 

"Fuck you, you stupid piece of shit," he grumbled, feeling like a small, very angry, child. The torn map seemed to laugh at him again. He flipped it off. 

Eddie turned away from the tree with one last dirty look to the paper to begin his trek back to his make-shift camp. He took a step forward and realized he had no clue how far he had run, or in what direction, or even how many times he had changed directions in his frantic chase through the trees. He couldn't even see the faint glow of his pathetic little fire anywhere around him. He spins around in place, looking for any sign of where he is, listening for any noise from the interstate, coming up empty. 

He hopes he imagined it when the first wet drop lands on his cheek, and another a moment later on his forehead, but soon realized he wasn't, in fact, imagining it when it begins to rain. Well, it was really more of a drizzle than anything else, but it was cold and stung his hands and face all the same. Thunder cracked in the distance, followed closely by lightning. He watched the sky turn a sickening shade of purple as the electricity sliced through the air. 

"You are fucking kidding me!" he screamed at the sky, at the roll of thunder and the increasing rain. Of course he would get lost in the rain in the middle of fucking no where, of course that bullshit would happen to Edward Francis Fucking Kaspbrak! What else would he have expected to happen, after all the shitty things that have happened in the last 18 years, this is just the cherry on top of the shit sundae. 

He grabs the nearest stick and throws it at the tree, and a rock, and several more things at the stupid fucking tree that stole his map that he needed and instead just got him lost in some strange forest in the middle of no where Maine, and he fucking hates this stupid trip and everything is stupid and oh fucking god, how he wishes he could just burn the whole world down in an inferno and watch the flames crackle and he throws his weight into his kick at the tree, the stupid fucking tree that stole his map, and he hears a distinct crunch on impact and his knees buckles and he falls to the ground. 

"Fuck!" he yells at the tree, now holding his throbbing toe through his boot. "Fuck you, you god damned tree, fucking fuck you!" 

Surprisingly, the tree does not respond. Eddie scowls. 

The icy rain is beginning to soak through his clothes as it picks up in intensity, sucking the heat out of the stretches of skin the water touches from his place in the dirt. His toe his throbbing like nothing else, but he won't look at it. What could he do, anyway? Wrap it in some fucking leaves like Tarzan or some shit? He's just got to ignore it for now. He stands, putting too much weight on that foot, and immediately throws up anything that might've still been in his stomach, his vision going blurry and head swimming. Maybe he should throw some leaves on it. 

Eddie stands back upright and a cold shiver makes its way down his spine. He tucks his bare hands close underneath his arms to keep his body heat in. He needs to get out of the rain. 

He doesn't even know what type of shelter he's looking for now, knowing better than to hope to find his camp. He can't stay underneath a tree, he'll be drenched in a minute, and what if lightning hits it? It's unlikely it'll strike the exact tree Eddie chooses, but it could still happen. Maybe a cave? But where is he gonna find a cave off the interstate? That seems unlikely too. He marches forward, swallowing down the pain from the toe he definitely just fractured, needing to find anything to keep him dry. 

And now he can hear all the sounds of the woods. Before, he had the safety of his tiny tent to buffer the noise or some fire light to envelop him with its protection. Now, he's exposed to everything that could be lurking in the dark, turning his neck violently at every sound nearby, the birds in their trees settling into their nests in the rain, wet leaves flopping their way across the ground, some sticking to his ankles making his panic rise even higher. The trees are so dark, their silhouettes seeming to loom over him at staggering heights like monsters ready to tear off his limbs. Monsters aren't real, Eddie, get your shit together. 

He hears the babbling water before he sees it, like a whisper above the rain. His heart rate sky rockets when he puts together what it is, rushing towards the sound, nearly tripping over his own shoes. Safety, he senses it, a stream means safety. 

It's sort of pretty in the moonlight, the water sloshing around in the growing storm, inky black and merciless and so, so relieving. He almost cries seeing it. He scans the bank, eyes blurry against the weather, spotting a small pile of fallen trees near the stream. It's barely large enough for him to curl up under the logs and fit, but it's enough to give him some relief from the incessant wind and rain. Safe enough that he doesn't mind the dirt that sticks to his soggy clothes and skin. 

He stays there for what feels like days, watching the stream splash from its bed and listening to it gurgle in the wind until the rain begins to lighten and return to a light drizzle. He's dried some, to his pleasure, so his coat isn't sucking the life out of his body. It must be early morning by now, the stars breaking through the trees and the moonlight shining down on his chilled skin. Maybe he can keep walking, stay along the stream and hope for the best. Hopefully it would lead him to a road, someone can pick him up and take him somewhere to get warm. 

He crawls from under his little cave of trees, smacking his head on a stray tree branch with a yelp and a few choice swears, wiping the dirt form his face and clothes the best he can. The last remnants of the storm sting his face like small needles, but it's better than being stuck on the ground any longer, and the walking could get him warmer, maybe enough to feel his freezing toes again. 

It could also kill you, Eddie, give you hypothermia or even just a particularly bad cold, send you to an early grave out in the woods. 

"Shut up, head," he says out loud, shaking his head in a petty attempt to clear them from his brain. 

He decides against walking along the stream, the trees offer better coverage anyhow, so he crosses along a large stone in the center of it and hops over to the other side. Jesus, what time is it now? Three in the morning? Maybe four? Whatever the time, it's too late for Eddie to be wondering aimlessly through a forest alone. Or maybe it's too early? Eddie doesn't know and he doesn't really care as he stomps around in the wet and the cold, one painstaking foot in front of the other, his toe screaming in his boot. Again, he misses his little tent, and as his stomach growls, the can of beans, fucking beans, he had been saving for the next day. 

Maybe he should've stayed in Derry. At least he'd be warm and dry, with a bed and food. Momma told him not to go, forbade him from even thinking of leaving for Boston, insisted he stayed home, and he's beginning to think she's right... 

But he'd have to take the pills, four times a day, every day, forever. And she wouldn't let him get a job or have money of his own. Why would you need that, Eddie? Your momma takes care of you just fine, don't I? You're too sick to work anyway, Eddie-bear, I provide everything you need. 

He cringes at the thought of his mother. He'd been out of high school for months and the only friend he had left in Derry was his mother now that Stan and Mike left for college, so every day was the same smothering shit. No, maybe it was better to be out here, even if he is scared a bear with gnaw his face off when he inevitably keels over and dies from the elements. 

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees the deer sauntering around in front of him, ignorant to his presence. It leans down to eat from the forest floor, its antlers rustling the bush in front of it. It must be a doe, if it still has its antlers. It looks so peaceful, just eating the wet plants around it as if nothing in the world can hurt it. What is it doing wandering around in the cold and the rain? 

He hits the ground hard, his head slamming against the leaves and the dirt as his thigh explodes in pain, his ears ringing. He can't even scream. His thoughts seem to drain out of his ear, the pain taking over his brain, and his hands are clutching his thigh. They're warm and wet, and he can't seem to catch his breathe, and blood is soaking through the fabric of his pants in a hot, black ink, mixing with to the mud underneath him, and an undistinguishable face is rushing to him from in the dark. 

They're talking, he can see their mouth shape into words, but the sound is muddled in the ringing and swept away from his ears as soon as it hits them. Their arms slip underneath his legs and arms, and Eddie screams so loud as he's being lifted from the ground it strips his throat and adds to the intense headache he has. He cries out with every footfall as the stranger sprints through the trees faster than Eddie would've thought anyone could with an extra 150 pounds in their arms, but they person is doing fine, still talking to Eddie as they run. 

The air burns his skin as they enter this stranger's cabin, the heat too much for his frozen nerves. He's practically dropped onto the bed, or the couch, or whatever it is he just landed on, Eddie's not sure, but the pain in his thigh shoots up his body, earning another excruciating cry from deep down in his chest. The person, a man, he realizes, is stuffing something underneath his foot, maybe a pillow or bunch of blankets, he doesn't know. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the strange man mumbles, cutting the leg of his pants off with a large hunting knife. It's the first thing Eddie seems to be able to focus on, the handle off-white and curved, maybe made of bone or antler, with a shiny metal used as accents around it, connecting it to the blade. The blade looks razor sharp, slicing through the fabric as if it were air, and the stranger casts it aside, sending it clattering loudly to the floor, skidding to a stop near a roaring fire. 

"You mother fucker!" Eddie screams, leaning down to clutch at his bleeding thigh as the man presses gauze soaked with something to it. It burns worse than anything he's ever felt, feels worse than when he broke his arm in elementary school or when he kicked the tree just hours ago, and the man presses a second piece of gauze to the wound, applying pressure to the wound. Bile rises up Eddie's throat, threatening to make an appearance all across the wooden floors. "Oh god, fuck you," he slurs out, squeezing his eyes shut, reaching back down for his thigh. His hands are pushed away roughly. The air smells heavily of metal and alcohol, smoke and sweat. 

"You're about to hate me a lot worse, dude," the man says, eyebrows furrowed, and shoves something smooth in between Eddie's teeth. Before Eddie has caught up to what's happening, the stranger's fingers are shoved into the hole in Eddie's thigh, and Eddie can't hear anything anymore except for his own screaming. 

He's warm, finally, a soft blanket covering his body and sweat drying in his hair. He blinks open his eyes to see soft sunlight coming through the window above his bed, illuminating the cabin and the man sitting by the fire. He's hunched over, eyes trained on the piece of wood in his hand as he carves away at it. He sits in a mess of limbs, his legs crossed with his elbow balancing on his knee. It's hard to say, but Eddie thinks he's tall, taller than him at least, with sharp features and dark curls falling over his eyes. He looks to be about Eddie's age, definitely can't be that much older, and there's no way he can be any younger, being out in this cabin all alone. 

Eddie sits up onto his forearms with a pained groan, and the mans eyes shoot up, so dark and deep, trained on Eddie. Heavy, purple bags sit underneath them, giving the man an almost gaunt look about him. "How ya doin', champ?" he asks, setting down the wood and knife. He doesn't move closer though, maintaining the distance between them, bringing his knees in further. His voice is not quite gruff, almost a gravelly flair to it. Eddie doesn't answer him. The man cracks a smile. "What, nothin' to say for the 'mother fucker' who fished a bullet out of your leg?" 

"You fucking shot me?" 

"And you cost me a deer, I'd call it even." He stands then, grabbing a bottle from the tiny table by the door. "Drink it, you look fuckin' awful." 

Eddie scowls up at him but takes the bottle anyway. He chugs it, not realizing just how thirsty he was before, and hands it back empty to the stranger. 

"I'm Richie," he says, putting the bottle back on the table. 

"Eddie," he returns, but it's difficult to keep his voice cold towards the man. He looks almost cheerful, placing water over the fire and sweeping up his wood shavings. "What time is it?" 

"Almost four, I think. You've been out almost the whole day." He tosses the broom back into the corner where it was, scratching the back of his neck. "I actually wasn't sure if it was okay for you to sleep after takin' a bullet, but I got tired of the screamin'. Made sure you didn't die after, so I guess it was alright." 

Of course he's been sleeping for a full day, that's exactly what he needed to happen. Get caught in the rain, break a toe throwing a fit, get shot, and now lose a day on his way to Boston. Absolutely splendid. 

"What're you doin' out here, anyway?" Richie asks him, plopping down on the floor next to the bed. He leans back, propped up on his hands, his legs splayed out underneath the bed, the floor boards squeaking underneath his body weight. His dark, all-seeing eyes are trained up at Eddie, barely blinking. Eddie breaks the eye contact. 

"I'm traveling." 

"In the woods?" 

"No, not in the fucking woods-" he stops, regaining his composure. "I was camping just off the highway, I got lost running after my map. I'm trying to get to Boston." 

Richie hums. "No wonder you got lost so easy, you're a city guy." 

"I am not," Eddie snaps, turning his head sharply to look back at Richie. "I'm just trying to get there, I'm from up north, Derry." 

"No shit!" Richie yells, and Eddie jumps from the mattress. "I used to live there! Graduated last year from Derry High! Small world, huh, Eds?" 

Eddie cringes and shakes his head. "Don't call me that, Jesus." 

"What, 'Eds'? I think it sort of suits you, small name for a small guy." 

"No, Eddie suits me just fine. Thanks." 

"Whatever you say, Eddie." The way he talks sounds so young, like he never grew out of being a 13-year-old, cracking jokes in the back of class. Even the way he carries himself screams immaturity, or maybe he's just lanky, throwing his arms and legs around like he doesn't realize how long they are. He stands up, grabbing the coat he had been wearing earlier, faint stains of blood sticking to the maroon flannel pattern of the body and right hand sleeve. He doesn't seem to notice as he slips it on and shoving on his boots. 

"Where- where are you going?" Eddie's voice shakes. He goes to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but it hurts too much to move them, and he stops trying with a soft grunt. 

"Hunting," Richie says as if it's obvious, and maybe it is. Eddie doesn't know what's normal out in the woods. "What, you scared of the sun going down, scared of the dark?" 

"No." And maybe he says it a little too fast, or a little too defensively, because Richie cracks a wide grin when he says it. "Shucks, Eds, you need a babysitter? Your adventure through the trees didn't produce a single ball between your legs?" 

"Oh fuck you, asshole, you fucking shot me." 

"And now I gotta babysit you." He's smiling like it's the funniest shit he's ever heard in his life. "How are we gonna eat if I gotta hold your hand the whole time?" 

"Jesus Christ, thanks for sticking your nasty fucking fingers into my thigh or whatever but I'm gonna be going now." He grabs his coat off the end of the bed and throws his legs over without thinking. The sound that leaves his mouth could be embarrassing if there was anyone around besides this fucking asshole who shot him, and the pain is too much for him to really care about that. He thinks maybe he can push through it, the pain could fade away if he walks, and tries to stand up off the bed. 

His vision cuts out before he even straightens out his knees, and he's tumbling to the ground for the millionth time in the last 24 hours. He braces for the hard impact, but instead he's being caught and lifted right back up, bridal style, and is set back on the mattress. 

"I'm not picking you up again, Eds, I swear on my life. Just stay on the bed." Richie grumbles, pulling the blanket back over him. "I'll go in the morning, Jesus, don't kill yourself over it." 

"Maybe if you weren't being such a dick I wouldn't be trying to get up." 

"Maybe if you weren't being such a stuck up priss it wouldn't be so funny to pick on you. Now stay put, dude, you're shot and your toes allj broken, just chill out a damn minute." Sure enough, Richie slides off his coat and is hanging it on the hook by the door, and he's hanging Eddie's over it with a stern look in his direction. 

All Eddie can do now is lay flat on his back, staring up at the wooden slats of the ceiling. He tries to wiggle his big toe, cringing at the pain. It moves slightly, but maybe because of the wraps Richie put on it to secure it to the toe next to it. Eddie hasn't looked, he doesn't want to see the swelling and the dark bruising he knows is there, but he can feel the wrap all around his foot. 

"I'm sorry," Richie says, this time sitting down on the bed next to Eddie, careful not to jostle his injured thigh. "We- this is weird. I haven't really seen a person since winter set in. Now I shot a random guy in the woods first thing this morning and brought him back to where I live, and you must've had the most god awful night. I think we're both just on edge, so let's start over?" He looks to Eddie with his eyebrows raised, offering a small smile. A real, genuine, almost sweet smile. 

What other option does Eddie have, really? He's lost in the woods with a strange man, unable to move because of a fucking gun shot wound in his leg, and the days are getting so cold so quickly. He sighs, sitting back up onto his elbows and offers a hand out to the man. 

Richie smiles wide. "Hi, my name is Richie, the local hermit, and I'm sorry I shot you. Not my best way to pick up a guy." 

Eddie laughs for the first time in probably weeks, if not longer, shaking Richie's hand like it's any normal day. "I'm Eddie, newly crippled, and I forgive you for shooting me. It'll give me a cool story, anyway." 

"Cool scar, too, since the stitches I did were shitty enough. You'll probably be able to make constellations out of the skin and stuff."

"That's not exactly a pleasant thought, Richie." Eddie cringes, pulling his eyebrows together. 

"Really? Scars are the coolest, pull it out and show it off to all the ladies." He laughs, looking at Eddie. "Or men. Either wat, it's sure to be a panty dropper." Eddie can't help the laugh that escapes his throat, holding his sides. 

They sit in silence for a minute, Richie's eyes seeming to bore even more holes into Eddie's skin. He senses something off about the man, the way he looks for just a little too long and his face can look almost empty of emotion in between beats. A shudder goes down his spine, and he looks away from him. 

"Do you want somethin' to eat? Your stomach's been growlin' all day." Richie asks, standing to look in a cupboard by the fire. "I don't have much, especially since I haven't gone huntin' in a few days, but I have some canned shit in here, if you want it." 

Eddie's stomach growls as if on cue and he salivates like a rabid dog. He hadn't even realized how hungry he was since waking up, all focus going to the man and his own leg. "Please, oh my God. I haven't eaten since Monday." 

Richie pulls out a can of... Eddie thinks maybe it's peaches, but he can't see the label clearly from the bed, and pops the top off with his knife. He hands it over to Eddie along with a fork, and it might be the most delicious thing he's ever tasted in his life. It feels like pure heroin, molten gold coating the fruit sliding down his throat. He devours the food, peaches, like he suspected, in under a minute, even drinking the syrup directly from the can. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and he's being handed another can of peaches, swallowing it down just the same. He can't remember a time he was so hungry in his lifetime, knocking back the last little drops of syrup like a shot and groaning. 

"Peaches might be my new favorite food," he says, handing over the now empty cans to Richie to toss onto the counter. "Thank you, so, so fucking much." 

Richie grins his wide smile, looking down at Eddie from his position leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "Don't even mention it, Eds. I won't leave you alone tonight, but I do have to go out tomorrow and try to bring home some actual food, maybe a bunch of squirrels or somethin'. You very clearly need the calories." He takes the water off the fire and sets it on a scorched mark burned into the wooden floors, then throws another log into the flames. "Probably should eat more, anyway. Haven't eaten in three days, could knock out a scrawny little guy like you." 

"Fuck off, man, I'm not that small." Eddie half laughs. "I gotta ration my food, I've mostly been relying on whatever change truckers who pick me up give me." 

"What, like, you're a prostitute? Like My Own Private Idaho?" 

"No, god, I'm a hitch hiker, not a whore." 

"Should be careful with that, Eddie Spaghetti, there could be some real dangerous people out there. Could be some serial killers." 

Eddie laughs, taking the glass of tea Richie's handing him. "For sure, coming from the guy who shot me. And don't call me that." 

Richie sips from his own mug. "What, 'Eddie Spaghetti'? C'mon, its a perfectly fine name." 

"That's an even worse nickname than 'Eds.'"

"No way!" Richie laughs, clattering down onto the floor across the tiny cabin from the bed, tea nearly sloshing out of his mug. "You're just a nickname hater!" 

"I am not, you just happen to come up with awful ones, full offense. Eddie is already a nickname and it works just fine." 

"I am so sorry, Your Majesty, I didn't realize you were so against fun." 

Eddie fakes a gasp, clutching his hand over his chest. "Fuck you, Richard, you wound me." 

"Sure do, if your leg is anything to go by. Get some sleep, Eds, try not to get anymore hurt."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! any notes are welcome, and feel free to come check me out on tumblr @shaggyandtheguccigang


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